


Mama, There's Wolves in the House

by cannibalinc



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Drowning, Dubious Consent, Electrocution, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Sub Stiles, Subdrop, Subspace, Under-negotiated Kink, Watersports, and MAYBE.... maybe.... if you squint, stilinskicest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 03:56:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalinc/pseuds/cannibalinc
Summary: Stiles is a sub with fulfillment issues a mile wide.Peter is a viciously opportunistic Dom thinly masquerading as a Good Samaritan. Stiles isn't falling for it, but it doesn't stop him from getting in the car.





	Mama, There's Wolves in the House

The Beacon Hills Submissive Wellness Center, or more honestly, daycare, isn’t the _worst_ place on earth. It’s got a full staff of trained professionals, a well-equipped facility, a plethora of structured activities... In the state of California, the Beacon Hills Submissive Wellness Center is lauded as a rare, shining example of institutional care.

It also happens to be really, supremely boring. 

Stiles knows he’s a sub.

In fact, he’d say he’s a _great_ submissive. He likes taking care of his dad, he likes finishing the list of chores he’s assigned everyday. Likes checking the boxes as he completes each task, and doesn’t feel whole without an approving clap on the back and a gruff squeeze when his dad gets home and sees his progress.

Besides that _one_ little hiccup with his dad and his mom’s collar and the gag, Stiles has never had any issues with identifying as a sub.

You know, until it comes to being a sub for anyone else.

Stiles rolls on his yoga mat, hips arched in downward-facing dog. He’s been at the daycare for forty-five minutes, and can already sense a stress headache on the horizon.

The handler is like a 20-something grad student; a sprig of kale really, who stutters every time he takes them through their bows and reminds them how _empowered_ submissives are. There are a lucky few who eat that shit up, are like way up in subspace, and then there’s Stiles. He’s jealous, honestly.

“Come on, darlings, let your spine become Mt. Everest. I am but the insignificant hiker who wishes to glimpse your highest peaks!”

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” Stiles grunts under his breath.

Before sub-yoga, there was the sub-pottery making, and before that, the sub sharing circle where all the subs sit down and reveal something they accomplished and something they didn’t. Stiles refuses to participate on account of Jackson Whittemore’s unbearable variation of ‘got to second base with Lydia Martin and only got _two-hundred dollars_ for my weekly allowance instead of the usual three.’

“Channel your raw power through your hips!”

Stiles has gotten more stimulation from being told to do the dishes at home.

It’s not even like he ranks low on the scale! He’s definitely a sub, he’s taken _all_ the tests; from doctors and from Facebook quiz apps, both. It’s just... all the Doms. In the entire city.

They suck?

“I’m stopping,” Stiles announces, letting his _Mt. Everest_ collapse on itself.

The instructor, Blake, gives him this patented Disappointed Dom look. Bully for him that Stiles is immune.

“Stiles,” Blake sighs, like it’s the heaviest thing he’s ever said. “It’s barely been fifteen minutes. You haven’t completed a single exercise this week, and we’ve had to put you in Hold every day. Finish the exercise.”

Stiles picks at his thumbnail, knows Blake is right. But exercises in futility are a bore.

“I revoke my consent to submit,” he says, and there’s the clincher.

Blake knew it was coming, hell, everyone did. He’s done it every day this week. And Blake will honor it, like any law abiding Dom. The only thing Stiles is not allowed to do in this place is leave before his time is up.

“ _Fine_ ,” Blake snaps. “But I am very disappointed. Very.”

Stiles tracks a fake tear down his cheek with his middle finger and sneers. Blake glares.

“Hit the showers, Stiles.”

If Stiles rolls his eyes back any harder, he’ll swallow them. He grabs his slippers and robe from the cubby shelf on his way out. He wants his hoodie to hide in, and he’d kill for some headphones. It’s all locked away at receivings with every other sub’s worldly possessions, to _decrease distracting stimuli and help the sub find peace_ , _oh and here’s a titillating sheer robe instead_. Stiles’ is a dark maroon, and much as he scorns it, likes the soft material.

He heads for the showers, skin crawling with the need to wash that stale yoga-mat smell away. He’s so done with this place.

It isn’t as though Stiles doesn’t realize he’s hurting himself. He’s constantly swinging between a drop or frenzy, and it leaves him exhausted and sick. His doctor has said his ADHD is partly a stressor that exacerbates his problems and partly a result of his unrealized submissive needs. Stiles has seen for himself how his Adderall intake increases with every dry spell.

On a bad day, he scrubs all the baseboards by hand, alphabetizes all of his dad’s files, sets dinner on the table by seven, and curls up at the front door to wait until his dad comes home. Even if he has to bow all night. There aren’t usually good days.

When he reaches the muggy shower chamber, there are several subs in their open stalls in varying stages of relaxation and in some cases, outright ecstasy. They’re restrained in the harnesses, their handlers rubbing them down with soft smelling soap and murmuring praises. He flashes his ID card on his robe at the doorman.

“Hello, Stiles, you’re a little early, aren’t you?” she says, a bright smile on her face. Same as yesterday. And the day before. This place runs on a script so constant it could be Newton’s fourth law.

They think he’s resisting being a sub. _Undermining his own development_. But here he is, grinding in 6 hours a week as prescribed by Dr. Deaton, until they can _control his stressors_ and _lower his tolerance to dominant behavior_.

Stiles shrugs and holds his wrists out to the next available handler, Braeden. She slides the full sleeve harness onto his arms, tightens the straps until he feels the burn of his shoulders being pulled together and past their limit.

She leads him to his stall, an open half-tub, half-shower with a low perch for him to straddle. He relaxes as his wrists are hooked to the wall in front of him, and his hips shimmy on the solid saddle forcing his thighs apart. The hot water sprinkles gently over his stretched body. It’s a pretty great set-up;  he’s tried to get his dad to install a shower like this at home, but he’s worried about leaving Stiles tied up by himself.

Stiles had asked under the impression his dad would be the one bathing him, but oh, silly him.

“That’s it,” Braeden coos, slides a soapy sponge down his back. “Hands flat on the wall, toes pointed. Good boy.”

Stiles settles, head bowed. He closes his eyes. This is good. He can enjoy this, he coaches to himself. It’s effortless. Braeden scrubs him thoroughly with the organic sea sponge, over his shoulders, correcting his posture and reminding him to keep still.

“Keep your knees still, honey,” she says, putting a hand to where one of them is bouncing.

Stiles rolls his shoulders, huffs.

“Stop tapping your fingers, Stiles,” she gently reminds him a second later, and wow, Braeden is a patient one.

“Yeah, I can’t seem to...” he rasps, raising his head so the water rushes over his face. He’s getting frustrated. He can feel a long cry coming on.

“Do you need a toy, honey?” Braeden asks, scratches at his scalp.

Stiles nods wordlessly.

“Yeah? You want the horsie and your favorite pacifier?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Stiles mumbles, biting his lip. He hates the names, feels himself burn for needing them anyway.

She brings him the saddle, a wide base with a thick protrusion for him to sit on. He does so, eagerly, impatient as Braeden helps him raise up and drop back down on the thick plug. It slides inside the shape of him, pressing where he’s soft and open. Stiles moans, holds his mouth for the gag, perfect for his clenching teeth.

He rocks back and forth, using his suspended arms as leverage. Braeden grazes her hands against him as she continues to wash him, whispers praises as he works himself over. It diverts his focus enough that he can relax into the bath, the water warm in his hair and on his back.

He whines around the bit in his mouth, cock slapping his stomach every time his hips roll. Braeden grasps the back of his neck, squeezes. She rubs the rough sponge over his swollen cock, light brushes that tease and hurt. The buildup is fast and diluted. He’s already dissociated from the pleasure.  

He’s crying now, and his orgasm is hardly a relief.

“It’s okay, honey, let it out. You’re in a safe place,” she croons in his ear, rubs at his cock until it’s clean, and Stiles is jerking away from the stimulation. He shudders, can’t stop now that it’s started. It’s always like this, every time; the crash as quick as the climax. His lips feel numb. He taps the wall three times.

Braeden removes the gag, rubs his jaw. She frowns when she checks his pupils, and he knows.

It’s the environment, they’d decided next, and moved him to the daycare. It’s the handler, they’d thought in the beginning, and replaced her with another easily enough. His medication, and lowered his dose, then increased it.

It’s him, they say.

“I’m dropping,” he sobs, like always. “Please, Ma’am, please don’t let me drop, I’m good, I can be good.”

The handlers are used to it now.

“You are good, honey. It isn’t your fault. Everything will be okay.”

Braeden hits a pager and has him untied in seconds. It makes it worse. He can’t help it, he’s thrashing, fighting just so he’ll be pinned down, can barely see through the water in his eyes. There’s a tight pressure in his ears, a ringing, and a bad taste in his mouth. Voices rush in on him, but he can’t focus enough to understand.

“I don’t want to,” he rasps. “I don’t wanna drop, please.”

There are hands on him now, grabbing his wet skin and lifting him. He’s toweled off quickly, efficiently, and ferried down the hall without ever touching the ground, and Stiles loses focus there. His heart is pounding, head panicked and scattered, knowing only the looming sense of failure.

When he opens his eyes, he’s still panting heavily, but everything is still.

They’ve put him down in the Hold room, wedged him into the canary cage. He’s folded neatly and upright, posture fixed with the rods that pass through the inside of the cage. The nape of his neck is pressed into a painful bow by the top of the small cage. His teeth are chattering, and he’s still damp, but it’s sweltering in the small Holding chamber, heat pouring on him from the vents on the ceiling. There’s a weight in his right hand, which Stiles knows is a buzzer to page the handler on the other side of the wall. The room is quiet, warm, and glowing a soft amber. It’s very familiar to him.

“Welcome back, Stiles,” says Dr. Deaton from somewhere behind him.

Stiles shifts, and keeps his reply to himself. He can’t look up because of the cage, and is glad for it.

“This is becoming a very worrisome trend.”

He needs to get out before this place wears him down even more. It wasn’t great before he started coming, but it wasn’t this bad, either.

“You even gave a few of your handlers a nosebleed.”

Deaton taps something, maybe a pen on a clipboard, maybe a riding crop on his gloved hand. It’s hard to tell with him.

“I had hoped to see improvement in your condition, Stiles. Unprovoked violence displayed by a sub is a particularly concerning development.”

Stiles clenches his teeth. He’s started shaking again, his head pounding.

“I’d hate to have to tell your father that you need more intensive therapy. The closest twenty-four seven facility is three hours away.”

He _knows_ , alright? But it isn’t like he does it on purpose.

Deaton sighs.

“You’ll be in here until the side-effects of the drop are gone. And then we’ll talk about your remaining options.”

Footsteps, and then the sound of the door opening and closing again.

The intercom buzzes, and a voice cracks from the observation deck. “Hey honey, would you prefer whale songs or rainforest sounds?”

Stiles clenches his jaw, words beyond him. The orderly doesn’t wait for his reply. Echoing whale cries bounce around the chamber.

“I’m stepping to the restroom for a sec,” the orderly informs him. “You sit tight and focus on recovering, okay?”

Stiles counts to twenty just to be sure, then wiggles until his shoulders jimmy the uppermost posture bar loose. Arms free, he grabs hold of the rods pinning his stomach and lower back. They slide out of their slots, and clang on the floor like a really discordant and earsplitting wind chime. Maybe if the daycare invested in _real_ bondage, you know, with actual locks, he’d have a better time.

He’s out of the canary cage in less than thirty seconds.

The floor is warm on his bare knees as he crawls to the wall, not quite ready to test his feet. He’s more likely to puke than walk a straight line at the moment. He peeks through the observation window. Deserted. Stiles cracks the door open and slips out. His ankle wobbles once, and he pinches his cheeks to get rid of that post-drop pallor. He passes the little cafe and a group of chatting handlers. As long as he manages to look normal, he can give them the slip.

Stiles isn’t the only naked sub wandering around. He has no idea where they’ve taken his robe, but if Stiles is springing from the place, and he definitely is, he needs _something_.

He heads back to the pool area, where Blake has by now moved his group from yoga to water aerobics.

“Feel your serving impulses circulate with your blood!” Blake’s voice echoes around the indoor pool. “Today, you’re serving your body. Kick, kick! Paddle, kick-kick. And turn!”

Twenty years from now, a psychologist is going to name Councilor Blake the source for all Stiles’ emotional issues.

The robes are hanging on hooks, slippers and towels tucked underneath a little shelf, a neat line, and Stiles peeks around the cubbyholes to watch the class swim. Blake’s back is to him, his bright purple swim cap giving him away, and the sequence is due for an underwater front rotation any second now.

He darts to the cubbies the moment they disappear into the water. He manages to snag a robe and skid back into the hall on the wet floor just as he hears the group splashing back up to the surface.

“Swim, my mountains, swim!”

Stiles looks at the powder blue, _very_ sheer robe and its matching, silk blue slippers.

It’ll work.

On the bright side, if he gets arrested for public indecency, he’ll be taken to the Sheriff’s Station where his dad will ignore all the signs of an escaped convict and let him nap in the snack room. Even if he has to endure the whole department laughing their asses off at him, it’s better than suffering here.

Stiles slips his arms into the gossamer robe, and okay, it’s super soft and light, and tickles Stiles’ thighs in a pretty great way as the hem flutters around him.

He knows of maybe three exits, none he can approach without looking out of place. The custodial and staff exits which can each only be accessed with a key card, and the front desk. The front desk is heavily guarded with a secretary, a security guard, and a surveillance camera. All intended for protecting the subs inside. It’s also where Stiles turned in his cellphone, his clothes, and his car keys.

Out the bathroom window it is then.

He darts into the nearest bathroom and sits in a stall to wait for it to empty out. He hears a few flushes, a few hand-washings, and then it gets quiet. He ducks his head under the stalls to check for feet in case of silent bathroom goers, and when it’s clear, Stiles climbs up on the toilet seat and surveys his work.

The window is small, small enough that Stiles worries the daycare might have to call the fire department when he inevitably gets stuck, but the latch is easy to lift. Beggars can’t be choosers. He flushes the toilet for noise cover and punches the wire screen out of its frame.

He waits a few more seconds just to see if anyone will walk in before Stiles levers himself up through the small opening, and god, he really needs to stop skipping Blake’s weightlifting class, because his upper body strength is _lacking_. He wheezes as he shimmies his way into the hot, California sun and stares down from his high position.

It’s the side of the building that faces the busiest intersection in Beacon Hills, and Stiles kind of wants to hit himself for not at least _trying_ for a window in the back of the building. Jesus, half the city is going to witness his escape. He’ll be on the 5 o’clock news before he even sets foot on the ground.

Stiles lands directly in the bushes.  

He waits for the world to stop spinning, checks his limbs for sprains. A utility van pulls into the parking lot, and Stiles peeks through the shrubs, hoping the damn blue robe isn’t showing through the shrubbery. Why couldn’t he have grabbed Greenberg’s camo ensemble?

When it looks safe, he edges along the wall away from the entrance side and toward the road. It’s stupid what he’s about to do, but Stiles has come this far already. At the rate he’s going, he’ll fall into a coma if he doesn’t get some sort of stimulation.

He walks along the road determinedly, crosses his arm over the sheer robe to preserve some modesty, and sticks his thumb out.

There is lots of honking and yelling out windows.

Lord, if a cop takes one look at him, he’s going to get arrested for prostitution. The situation would be funny enough that his dad would let them actually process the arrest.

He glances back at the daycare a short distance away, sure someone is seconds from running after him.

The sound of a tire hitting the curb brings his attention back to the street. There’s a silver Tesla pulled up, the passenger window rolled down.

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?” this prissy looking guy asks from the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a deep V under a light grey sports coat, his eyes shaded with transition-lense glasses. Stiles tugs at the hem of his robe, trying to hide his very naked groin. “You look awfully cold out there.”

It’s ninety-fucking-seven degrees.

Stiles glances into the car. You can’t drive a Tesla _and_ be a murderer. It’s like, the suburban dad of cars, with responsible side-door airbags and shit.

This guy definitely pays his taxes, at least.

“I’m craving a milkshake,” Stiles blurts, bites his lip and peeks at the man through his eyelashes. Anyone with two neurons to rub together would be ashamed of his behavior. It’s like something from a porno. “They don’t let us have dairy at the daycare.”

It’s a vegan organization, which surprises no one.

The man glances up the road to the sub center, a wicked grin on his face.

“A runaway brat?”

Stiles scoffs. “Excuse you, I’m a fugitive seeking asylum from an oppressive system, _sir_.”

The man hums.

“You don’t sound like you’re suffering for a rescue.”

Stiles is actually considering running back to the daycare just to pick up his keys so he can grind the sharp edge of them down this guy’s insanely douchey car.

“May I pretty please have the privilege of resting my unworthy ass on your passenger seat?”

The man dips his chin, teeth bared.

“Please do… Jackson?”

Stiles pauses in the middle of an awkward squat, half in the car, half out.

“Um..?”

It dawns on him then, with un- _fucking_ -believable hilarity, that in a looping, gold cursive, Jackson Whittemore is embroidered into the blue robe, right over his heart. Stiles flops into the seat, laughing all the while.

“Oh, man. He would be so lucky,” Stiles says, wipes a tear from his eye as he buckles his seat-belt. He nearly jumps out of his skin as it auto-adjusts on his hips. “I _would_ like to pretend to be him while I’m technically a runaway, but I would literally break out in hives. Like, my skin would swell just from wearing his personality. We’re talking open sores and _flakes_ and...”

It kind of hits him then, mid-description of pulsing boils, that he’s just put himself in the car of a strange Dom for destinations unknown. He’s basically breaking every important order his dad and society in general have ever given him. He swallows, throat understandably tight.

“Anyway. Jackson is the worst. I’m Stiles. It’s a nickname, which in my unbiased opinion is a way better name than _Jackson_ , I mean how boring is that? He could be a Romney with a name like _Jackson_. Did you know Mitt Romney’s first name is actually _Willard_? Willard! Like a super-villain or—”

“Feet off the dash, sweetheart.”

Stiles drops his legs back to the floorboard. He taps his hands on his thighs rhythmically.

“So... Sonic?”

“Of course, baby.”

Stiles bristles at the endearments. It’s a Dom thing, he knows, where it’s just culturally acceptable to call subs whatever cutesy name whenever they want. Sure, it’s usually benign. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. He bites his tongue and studies the man.

He’s got a beard, flecked with grey, like the soft-looking hairs at his temple, and a shiny watch on his left wrist. Surely only upstanding members of society wear watches like that?

“So like, this car is pretty swanky,” Stiles stutters, pulling his robe tighter. “Dual air control, seat warmers. It’s the new model, right? You must be well off.”

Jesus, Stiles sounds like every kind of gold-digging, slutty stereotype there is.

“I mean, you know,” he swallows. “It’s nice. My jeep is like, older than I am. I’m almost positive I was conceived in the back seat, but dad won’t tell me because _apparently_ it isn’t ‘appropriate.’ Haha…”

He clears his throat when the man remains silent. Stiles isn’t even sure the man’s breathing. Is it getting warm in here? He fiddles nervously with the AC, flicking it up then down when icy air blasts through Jackson’s beautiful and shitty robe, then up and down again just so his hands have something to do.

“A car like this has to have a sweet sound system, right?”

The man glances at him before turning back to the road, a quirk on his mouth.

“Turn on the radio and see.”

Stiles jumps forward and messes with the touch screen until music starts playing. He jumps stations for a bit until a hand pats his bare knee.

“This one is good, baby. Sit back.”

Stiles feels himself blush, and settles back in his seat to the sound of the local top 40 station. The hand stays where it’s too warm on his skin, and Stiles feels paralyzed. He’s quiet for the rest of the ride, and a few stoplights later, they pull into a Sonic.

He’s alive again in seconds.

“Ooh, I want the dark chocolate and pretzel blast. No, a cherry limeade.”

The man looks at him over his rectangular glasses with an eyebrow raised.

“Stay.”

Stiles bristles as the Dom turns off the car and steps out.

In the split second he has to walk around the back of the car, Stiles wrenches the glove box open for anything. He skims a title certificate under the name, _a-hah!_ Derek S. Hale.

“Gotcha,” he mutters, closing the box and sitting upright when his door is pulled open, and the Dom holds his hand out expectantly. Stiles glances around the Sonic picnic area warily.

There’s a family sitting next to the playground, a few kids running around.

He feels very keenly that he’s underdressed in that moment. It isn’t _so_ strange for half naked subs to be paraded about in public, but it isn’t something Stiles has ever imagined for himself. Plus, it’s usually exclusively owned subs walking around in lingerie. Stiles feels exposed, vulnerable. He covers his neck with his hand nervously.

“I have a collar in the back if you’d like,” the Dom, _Derek_ , says, laughing at him.

“No!” Stiles barks, slightly horrified. Who the hell offers to collar a total stranger? “No way. Can’t I just. Stay in the car?”

“If you want your milkshake, you’ll give me your hand.”

Stiles deliberates.

“Yes sir or no sir, Stiles.”

He stalls.

“Three seconds before the offer expires, and Stiles, you don’t want to take my kindness for granted.”

“Yes, sir,” he grits, and slaps his hand heavily on the guy’s palm.

He smiles and pulls him smoothly from the car, mouth brushing over Stiles’ knuckles and tickling his skin.

“Good boy.”

Stiles feels himself defrost marginally.

“Your stubble is a weapon, and I am feeling very threatened at the moment.”

“Two choices,” Derek says, completely ignoring him and pulling him to the tables. “On my lap or at my feet.”

Stiles grimaces at the sticky, concrete ground and his very exposed knees.

“Not much of a choice,” he mutters under his breath. “Lap.”

Derek sits and pats his thighs invitingly. Stiles pretends at being shy, gingerly settling on the man’s lap and hiding his crotch with his hands. They’re immediately grasped and pulled away, and his knees are forced apart. Stiles gulps.

The family a few tables down eyes them pointedly.

“Do you know what you want?” the Dom whispers in his ear, and he forgets for a sec that they’re talking about ice cream.

“Um. The wildberry lavender shake? The mozzarella sticks look good though… Maybe I should just go with a classic vanilla frosty.”

“Hmm,” is all he says and presses the pager.

“Okay, okay! Final call, I’ll have the lemon—”

“Ready to order?” a voice calls over the sound system.

“Yes, I’ll have two Oreo Sonic blasts. That’s all, thank you.”

Stiles sits there, dismayed and confused. When the server brings them their shakes a few minutes later, Derek passes him his cup silently and takes a happy slurp from his own. Stiles stares down at it, feeling disconcerted and small.

“Something wrong, baby? Don’t like Oreo?”

“No, I like it...”

A heavy hand strokes his thigh. Stiles slurps at his blast, feeling sullen. He gets what’s happening here. Doms think they can center him by making all his decisions for him, taking away his agency or whatever. Sometimes it works. Mostly, it’s just annoying.

He muscles past it and focuses on this stanger Dom.

“So. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“You might have considered that before getting in my car.”

Stiles scowls and chews on his straw viciously.

“Yeah, yeah. Jokes on you though, _Derek_.”

Stiles expects admonishment; for his sass, for invading this man’s privacy. For some reason, the man just laughs and plucks at the name Jackson on the front of his robe, pinching his nipple in the process. Stiles squawks.

“You seem like a clever boy, Stiles. Why don’t you tell me why you ran from the tender nest of the daycare?”

Stiles huffs, squirms on the Dom’s lap.

“Why didn’t I run away _sooner_ , more like. I mean, there’s science that proves places like that work. Tons of science. Trust me, I’ve read like _all_ ,” Stiles rolls his eyes for emphasis, “the pamphlets. There are literally fifty subs there right now who swear by it. Deaton practically sucks its big, veiny corporate—”

“Five words.”

A hand clamps on the back of Stiles’ neck, and he falters.

“What?”

Derek laughs at him openly. “In five words or less, tell me why you left the facility.”

“But that’s—that’s not! _Five_ words, who can convey anything like that? What do you mean, five words—”

“One word.”

Stiles snaps his mouth shut. He glares down at his melting Oreo blast as Derek lazily strokes up and down his arms, presses a raspy kiss to the nape of his neck. What the fuck.

“Argh,” Stiles complains, wipes his face with a sweaty hand. He feels… prickly. Pulls at his hair and bites his tongue, but Derek waits him out.

“Broken.”

“The system?”

Stiles shakes his head, neck stiff and jerky.

“Oh,” Derek sighs. “Oh, sweetheart.”

He leans back and grabs Stiles’ shoulders so he can turn him around. He tries to direct Stiles’ chin, but Stiles isn’t having any of that shit. He pulls away and glares off into the passing traffic. He wonders why this guy isn’t more worried about being spotted with a runaway. Maybe if he knew Stiles’ dad is the Sheriff.

“You aren’t broken, Stiles. You’re bored. I’ve always said that’s the most dangerous thing a sub can ever be.”

“Wow, you’ve just solved a sixteen year problem.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. I’ve been treated too nicely all my life. I have too much power at home and was never taught to respect Doms like I should. All I need is a good twenty-four-seven master to give me an attitude adjustment with their dick. How am I doing?”

“I don’t think an attitude adjustment would hurt,” the Dom says, then actually looks like he pities Stiles, and pets his hair in a _there, there_ way. “I can be mean to you if that’s what you want. I am _very_ good at being mean.”

Derek holds up his maraschino cherry and rubs the smooth skin of it on Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles squints, wondering where this is going, and opens his mouth to accept it. Derek pulls it away at the last second, and Stiles grunts in annoyance.

“When was the last time being a sub didn’t feel like a chore? Five words.”

Stiles shrugs. Recognizing the problem doesn’t solve it. Knowing he’s bored out of his mind doesn’t cure him of it. Besides he makes do just fine with his dad. Usually.

“I can’t consent to you.”

Derek laughs again. Strokes his face, finally feeding him the cherry. Stiles savors its syrupy taste.

“Now, that’s funny. Finish your milkshake, sweetheart.”

Stiles obeys, suddenly having a lot less fun.

He wonders if he should be feeling more panicked, as he chews on his straw, but there’s this hazy feeling crawling into his head that’s making everything feel distant and numb.

“Did you drug me?” he asks, half-serious.

Derek gives him that pitying look again and pats his cheek. Stiles bites at the withdrawing fingers.

Stiles finishes his treat in sour silence. When he refuses to move when the Dom orders him to throw their cups away, the man _deadlifts_ him with _one freaking arm._ A woman from the table a bit aways smiles and calls “Trouble in paradise?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” Derek says to her, sugary sweet. “But worth every little tantrum in the end.”

They laugh in that condescending Dom-y camaraderie way, and Derek deposits him back in the car without so much as a grunt of effort.

They pull out of Sonic, and Stiles scrutinizes Derek’s arms with new focus.

“You don’t look that muscular.”

“That’s because my jacket fits. Kids these days wear everything so tight.”

“I’m a tall guy!” Stiles exclaims. “Even my dad can’t lift me anymore.”

Stiles had been inconsolable for months upon that revelation.

“You just lifted me like, like a medium weighing sack of… of… tissues.”

Derek’s mouth quirks.  
  
“I wouldn’t say _medium_ weighing.”

Stiles stews while trying to determine whether the Dom means he’s too heavy or too skinny.

They drive for twenty minutes before Stiles realizes it’s been too long. It only takes half that time to drive through the entirety of Beacon Hills altogether, and is that an ‘Exiting Beacon County’ sign? He jerks up in his seat, staring back at the sign as it disappears behind them.

“Derek,” he squeaks. “We’re leaving Beacon Hills.”

“You can hardly expect me to commit a felony in my own home. I wouldn’t be a very good criminal if I did.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles wheezes. “I’m only supposed to be at the center for another hour, you have to take me back. My dad, he’ll worry if I’m not home—”

“They called your father the moment they realized you weren’t in the building. I assume he’s already worrying.”

Stiles feels an icy sweat prick the back of his neck.

God he’s the worst sub there is. He doesn’t deserve his dad.

He thinks, but Derek paid with cash at Sonic, and they were too far down the street when he got in the car for the daycare center cameras to ID them. Beacon Hills is a small town though; surely someone called the police station when they saw Stiles on the side of the road…

“Is this even your car? Did you steal it?”

Derek gives him an unimpressed look.

“Sit back before you choke yourself with that seat belt.”

“Is your name even Derek?!” Stiles demands, getting loud as he panics.

“Now that you mention it...,” the Dom says with a sly smile.

“Oh my god.” He feels faint. “At least let me call my dad? Let him know I’m alive?”

“Hmm, no.”

Okay, no big deal. If Derek—Jesus, fuck, if this _guy_ is whisking him halfway across the country, they have to stop for gas at some point. Stiles is clever. He’ll bruise himself up in the car pretending to go into a frenzy and cry until his whole face is red and swollen. By the time he hobbles up to an unsuspecting cashier, the cops will have this guy in handcuffs. He’ll be home before dark. The end. Lots of therapy. His dad will sweep him up in his arms and never let go.

Stiles leans back, eyes on the gas meter. Completely fucking full, are you kidding me.

He’s about to commit fully to the tantrum the Dom had accused him of throwing earlier when they turn up the interstate ramp, westward.

“What, are we going to the beach?” he asks sarcastically.

“Yes, there’s a place at Elk Creek Beach about four hours away.”

Stiles mouths _oh my god_ at himself in the side mirror. He has a vision of being tied up in a blanket and drifting along the bottom of the ocean floor for the fish to eat.

“Is that where you take all your underage victims?”

The Dom glances over at him, squeezes his thigh and smiles.

“Only the deserving ones.”

“Wait, isn’t Elk Creek one of the private beaches?”

“I have a friend of a friend.”

Of course. Which means he’s some sort of business tycoon or mob boss, rich enough that the law is useless against him.

Stiles huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. Four hours. And then what? He’s washed up at high tide for the birds to peck, and they never find his body thanks to some old billionaire dude who won’t let tourists play in his sand.

“I’m going to have to pee in like fifteen minutes. That milkshake is going right through me.”

“You can hold it like a big boy, or you can piss yourself. My seats are water proof.”

Jesus Christ.

He tries not to dwell on his dad, probably swarming with his deputies through the city, shaking down poor Blake for leads, and taping off the entire sub center. Stress eating. Stress drinking. Blood pressure rising. Cardiac arrest, oh god!

Stiles is literally the worst son on earth. All he had to do was downward-facing dog!

For a while, Stiles tries to make meaningful eye contact with every car they pass, but people are disappointingly self-absorbed. When he tries to make more dramatic gestures, not-Derek pushes a button behind the steering wheel and the back of Stiles’ seat drops.

“Lay down and be still, sweetheart.”

The misery of his situation wears him down, and he dozes off somewhere between Palermo and Gridley. When he wakes up, he expects to see the coast off in the distance, but they’re instead crowded in a busy uptown area.

“Where are we?” His voice cracks from his little nap. “What day is it? Are we still in California?!”

He sits up, pulling on his seatbelt, and looks around wildly. The car pulls around a gleaming hotel and into a parking deck, very much inland.

“This is… a Sheraton?”

“Do you really think I can take an unscheduled trip to the beach in the middle of a work week?” The man actually rolls his eyes.

Stiles… feels marginally relieved.

His chin is grabbed in a tight grip, and he’s forced to make eye contact.

“Behave, and I will put you in subspace. Make a scene, and I’ll take the skin off your thighs.”

Stiles nods his head frantically and lets the Dom guide him through check-in and up to their suite. It’s more like a loft than a hotel room, a lounge area and a separate bedroom. It doesn’t even have that stiff hotel look, a warm orange suede couch and dark wood dining table. There isn’t a single picture of a sailboat. The whole place smells like a Kirkland's.

“This is much less torture dungeon-y than I was expecting.”

“Well, it’d be different if we came during swinger’s night. They reserve a whole floor.”

The Dom sets down his keys and slips his jacket from his shoulder. Stiles stares, mouth dry. He’s seen the same ritual when his dad gets home, a man unwinding after a long day, but it doesn’t prepare him for when the Dom looks directly at him as he stalks forward.

“Tell me what you want before we get started. Three words.”

He says it like it’s no big thing, unclipping his watch and slipping off his class ring, like he doesn’t want to accidentally scratch Stiles with it later. He likes watching his hands, Stiles realizes, broad and hairy and tan.

“Um. I’ve never...”

He cocks his head, and Stiles snaps his mouth shut. “You’ve never participated in a scene.”

Stiles’ face burns, but he shakes his head.

“Have you ever had sex?”

“I mean, the stuff at the daycare. Sort of. I know all my bows, okay? And my dad kind of helped me through a couple of, of things until I could be on my own.”

“Ah, _fatherhood_. A fruitful endeavor to be sure. You’re Daddy’s boy?” the Dom croons. “I bet you were heartbroken when he left you all by yourself.”

Stiles folds into himself, flushing and a little morose. The Dom pets his cheek with a sweet sigh.

“Don’t be sad, baby. I get to groom you for myself, isn’t that nice? For your benefit, of course.” He laughs at his own little joke, palms sliding over the soft robe and plucking at the shoulders until it drapes down on the crease of Stiles’ elbows.

Stiles glares.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure this is a completely selfless gesture. It’s all for me.”

“What can I say?” Warm lips trail over Stiles’ neck and ear. “I’m a philanthropist.”

Stiles makes to step away, to _breathe_ , but he’s held fast.

“Tell me what you’re looking for, Stiles,” he repeats.

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it. His face won’t cool down.

“Tell me your name,” he counters.

“You can call me Daddy if it’s so important to you.”

He’s laughing again, like Stiles is just a joke. Stiles punches him firmly on the chest, but the man doesn’t budge.

“You don’t deserve that title,” he snaps viciously.

The man raises his hands placatingly, smile stretching wider. “Of course. I’m sure there’s only one man who has that honor, right?”

Those hands go back to his waist, squeezing, and he’s lifted again until he’s seated on the mattress. If he could have just a second where the man isn’t touching him!

“I’m going to ignore what you’re trying to imply,” he says through clenched teeth.

This makes the man coo at him, petting his short hair.

“All right, baby. It’s Peter.”

Huh. Peter.

“Kind of bland.”

“You must not want subspace all that badly, being such a brat.”

Stiles looks up at the man, and Peter suits him much better than Derek.

“You’ll really do it? Put me in subspace?”

Peter so far has been all smiles and chuckles. He’s doing it now.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Stiles shrinks away, as much as he can.

“But don’t do anything like… _painful_.”

He thinks of his dad, how he’s always been nothing but gentle, always telling him it doesn’t take violence to be dominated.

Peter rubs his thumb under Stiles’ eye as though wiping a tear.

“I’d be happy to show you a certain side of tenderness, Stiles.”

Stiles melts a little at that, unable to help from leaning forward and hoping for something that won’t end in a panic.

“Let’s clean you up first. You smell like a public gymnasium.”

Stiles bristles, but doesn’t fight when Peter picks him up and carries him into a huge bathroom with an equally huge hot tub to match. The bathroom smells like warm bath salts, and Peter sets about filling the tub with steaming hot water. Stiles deliberates with himself for all of thirty seconds before abandoning the robe. He maintains that any bad smells are Jackson’s responsibility.

Peter looks him over slow and deliberate, like he can better savor the sight of him by not blinking.

“What a pretty boy I’ve caught,” he muses.

Stiles looks away, skin prickling.

“Step into the bath, Stiles.”

He has to pass Peter, their chests brushing, and Peter runs a sharp nail down Stiles’ chest. He steps into the large bath, the water a little too hot for comfort. Stiles hisses as he eases his foot to the bottom, followed by his other. The water scorches his skin, but he slowly sits until he’s up to his chest in hot water. It feels a bit like a metaphor for his current life decisions.

“You getting in?” Stiles asks, looking up at Peter who is still standing beside the bath, _uselessly_ if you ask Stiles. It’s certainly big enough for the both of them.  

“No, sweetheart,” Peter says, rolling up his sleeves and dragging a stool over from the sink. Stiles drools a little at the sight of his hairy forearms. He sits and lathers up a washcloth with whatever special skin-treatment soap a hotel like this has. “Lean back, and close your eyes. Give me your arm.”

Peter touches him with a firm pressure like he’s been doing it all his life. There isn’t anything super special about being bathed. Sub psychologists everywhere have spent the last ten years hammering in the bathing ritual as a great emotional stabilizer, so it’s become the blunt and over-wrought tool of every wellness center, advice column, and romance movie to grace the public eye. Stiles draws patterns in the swirling bubbles and lets himself be manhandled. It’s not as thorough as Stiles expects, the Dom brushing under his arms, over his chest and hair with firm but quick motions. Eventually Peter finishes sudsing him up, a hot hand coming to rest around the front of his neck.

“Under the water, Stiles.”

Stiles goes under without resistance. He scrubs at his own face, feels Peter running a hand through his hair until it’s washed clean. Stiles goes to lift himself back up, and—and, Peter’s hand clenches on his throat.

Stiles lets out a burst of air bubbles, confused. He reaches for Peter’s wrist as he tries to lever himself out of the water. He’s locked in place.

What the fuck, what the _fuck_.

He foot smacks the side of the tub. He hears the water splashing as he struggles. His nose burns, blood rushes to his head.

He scratches at Peter’s arm, but nothing he does seems to affect the man.

The heat rushes in on him, a panicky, smothering suffocation.

Peter pulls him up by the neck before he can even begin to react, and Stiles coughs and retches in the open air, eyes streaming with soapy water and tears.

“Peter—!”

He has a million things to say but can’t breathe enough to get them out.

“Shh, let it happen, baby.”

“No, no Peter, don’t—!”

“Back under.”

The water rushes into his ears as he’s pushed to the bottom of the tub again. He immediately starts to struggle, pulls on Peter’s immovable arm, kicking out, trying to reach his blurry face. It looms above him like a murky shadow, a strange redness glaring through the water. He blinks rapidly, eyes stinging.  

His chest _burns_.

He tries to hold his air this time, but it trickles out of him with every heavy thrash of his arms. His nails claw at Peter’s arm and chest to no effect.

He screams.

“That’s it, almost there,” Peter says when he pulls him up again.

Stiles chokes, feels a soft, dry towel wipe his face and thinks it’s over. He can’t keep his head up on his own, can’t see, can’t _think_ —

Peter smothers his face with the towel, pinching his nose shut, and dunks him under again.

He writhes, whole body pushing against the single point of pressure at his collarbone. The bony edge of his ankle strikes against the sharp water faucet, but the pain is secondary. Stiles resists but doesn’t have the strength to keep fighting it. He lays at the bottom of the bath for an eternity, settling like sand until his chest might turn inside out. He clutches at Peter’s arm, waiting.

He’s in the dark, can’t tell when the red fuzziness starts to turn black, when the bursting need for air starts to become estranged. It’s quiet now that he’s still, so so quiet, and he thinks maybe he could breathe in and it’d be okay, just once.  

He almost misses it when Peter pulls him back up, warm breath on his ear as a voice whispers _breathe, just breathe sweetheart_.

“Don’t you feel so much better?” Peter coos at him. Another dry towel touches his face and Stiles flinches away, but all it does is dab at his hairline and wipe roughly at his open mouth. “Not so much spinning around in your head now?”

Peter dips his arms into the bath, reaching under his back and knees to lift him out. Stiles clings to his neck with weak arms to get away from the water, face mashed into the soaked collar of Peter’s shirt. His whole body jerks with his coughs, and Peter’s grip never once slips.

The blankets are cold when Peter lowers him to the bed, face down, water still dripping from his hair.

“No!” he gasps, voice hoarse, when Peter moves away.

Peter chuckles, lowers himself on Stiles until he’s trapped under his weight.

“Why?” Stiles wheezes out between his coughing and teeth chattering.

“You needed it, of course,” Peter says with an indulgent gentleness, his hands stroking down the back of Stiles’ thighs. “I’m not much into breathplay, but who am I to deny a sub?”

When Peter pulls away this time, Stiles doesn’t fight it, looks over his shoulder to find him rummaging through a bag.

“What is that?” he asks warily. His voice is a rough croak.

“Complimentary sub care-package. Comes with this suite.”

Stiles blinks, brain slow.

“You can get bondage through room service,” he says, a little dazed. The words pull at his throat and send him coughing again.

Peter puts something on the bedside table and unbuttons his shirt. He’s well-defined, would have to be for all the heavy lifting he’s been doing with Stiles’ body. His chest is tan, covered in hair that trails all the way down and across his stomach.

“I could pet you,” he slurs, letting the side of his face mash into a downy pillow.

Between one blink and the next, Peter has lost his soaked shirt, nice jeans and underwear, and he’s kneeling beside the bed, a thumb gently lifting Stiles’ eyelid. He’s finding it hard to concentrate, can’t quite follow Peter with his eyes, only knows he wants very badly to make him happy. Peter grabs a couple of things from the bag and climbs on the bed.

“I thought you were going to put me in subspace,” he mutters as Peter straddles his back, pushing him into the plush mattress and bending his spine into an arch.

Peter laughs, rubs the back of his neck. Something cool wraps around where he feels bruised by his struggle in the bath, then cinches tight.

“You’re already in subspace.”

Stiles feels his heart stutter. His body feels like it’s buzzing, heavy. He’s slightly terrified but… good. Like he could fall asleep.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Something buckles in place around his neck and Stiles lifts a heavy hand to feel. Peter bats him away.

“Did you just collar me?” he asks, feeling a little alarm trickle through him before it slips away.

Peter turns him over, manipulating his pliant body with ease.

“Just a shock collar, baby. That hardly counts.”

“A shock—a _what!_ ” Stiles yelps, hands flying to his neck. “Take it off!”

“Hmm, first tell me how you’re feeling. One word.”

Stiles pants, looking up at Peter with something like horror. He’s got a handheld control in his hand, a wire connecting it to the apparatus wrapped snug on his skin.

“Scared,” he whispers.

“Don’t lie,” Peter scolds him. “Try again.”

Stiles clenches his teeth. He might be crying.

“Better,” he admits grudgingly.

He’s not completely sure what the truth is.

Peter rewards him by pressing a button with a small beeping sound. There’s a second where Stiles thinks it’s not going to work, and then the jolt hits him. It’s sharp, makes his whole body tense, then disappears with barely a sound. His neck and fingers sting like nettles.

“Peter—”

“Do you want me to take you back to the daycare?”

Stiles clenches his eyes shut.

“...No.”

There’s that unassuming beep again, and Stiles seizes with the shocks, unable to cry or scream while it lasts.

“No? Is this how you talk to your Dom, Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his head, heart tripping. He’s getting sweaty behind the knees, under his arms. His teeth hurt.

“What do you call him?”

Peter’s grinding against the space between his thighs, the heat of his arousal soaking Stiles to the bone. He wants to be good, the impulse as strong as he’s ever felt it. It burns to resist.

“...Daddy,” he chokes out.

“ _Good_ boy,” Peter purrs, and mashes the button.

Peter pets at Stiles’ soft cock as his body jerks with the current, and Stiles whines when it’s over, sensitive. His neck feels sunburnt, his whole body prickling like static.

“ _Please_ ,” he wails, trying to wiggle away. Peter tuts at his useless resistance.  

“Let’s try that again. Do you want to go back?”

Stiles sobs, feeling terrible and perfect for giving in. “No, Daddy.”

The shocks this time are the longest yet, and after, Stiles registers something wet oozing down his thighs and stomach. Did he… piss himself? No, his cock is still twitching and warm from coming.

“You’re not respecting Mt. Everest,” he mumbles deliriously. Peter laughs, examines his eyes again.

“You are positively soaring, sweetheart.”

The world tips as Peter flips his pliant body back onto his stomach. Stiles bites against the sheets and thrusts his ass back in the air meaningfully. Peter spends long seconds doing nothing before Stiles feels slick fingers prodding at his warm hole. Stiles shivers as three thick fingers slide easily into his ass, rubbing his soft insides and getting him wet with lube. Peter hums.

“A little more used back here than I was expecting.”

Stiles struggles to lift his head out of the pillows and glare over his shoulder.

“I’m a sub with fulfillment issues,” he pants, hips gyrating between the sheets and Peter’s thick knuckles. “Of course my ass is used.”

“My mistake,” Peter says, nonchalant. His fingers withdraw, and then he’s trying to put his whole fist up Stiles’ ass.

Stills keens at the steady, relentless pressure, the burn. He feels himself stretching as Peter presses into him right up to the widest part of his hand. Stiles is breathing himself through it when that little beep goes off. He convulses as the collar shocks him, and god, suddenly Peter’s hand is the biggest thing in the world, his ass clenching so tight.

“Not bad,” Peter comments when it’s over, like Stiles’ ass is a god damn amatuer artist at a live gig.

Stiles whines, his ass fluttering uncontrollably as he twitches through the lingering feeling of electricity in his veins. Peter pushes his hand a little harder, and Stiles’ body winds up in anticipation of his hole giving in, that warm, wrecked feeling of taking something just a little too big. He’s almost pushing into to, wanting it.

Peter pulls away, and he’s left gaping around air.

“There, there sweetheart,” he tuts, petting his back. “If I gave you my whole fist, you wouldn’t be able to properly appreciate my cock.”

More like his cock can’t appreciate this ass. Stiles tries to stay bitter, but his emotions are mercurial and fleeting. It’s hard to stay irritated when his skin is buzzing and there’s a distracting throb around his neck.

He hears a loud _schlick_ noise, and Peter kisses him just under the shock collar on the back of his neck.

“It’s good that you keep your ass so soft and open. It’s ready for Daddy whenever I want it.”

Stiles makes a small noise in his throat at the feel of a warm, wet pressure at his hole. It’s different from the toys he has at home and at the daycare. Peter’s cock is hot and smooth, and—

“Are you wearing a condom?” Stiles asks, mouth half muffled into a pillow.

Peter laughs and presses on his head until he’s smothered into the fluffy cushions.

“Shh, sweetheart. Daddy’s busy.”

It’s big and heavy, and does such a good job of splitting him open, pinning him in place. It slides in effortlessly. It’s already better than any toy Stiles has ever used, and Peter has barely moved. The first thrusts send shivers down his back and warm him to burning. Peter’s dick is hot, like really hot, and it scorches all the way to the hilt, cleaving him open. He grinds steady and firm along his prostate like he’s got it’s location on GPS. Stiles keeps losing his breath, exhalations punched out of him every time Peter’s hips ram into his ass. He forgets all about the collar until Peter’s fingers caress the back of his neck and slip under the rim. It makes the band go tight around his neck, and Peter tugs just a little, just enough to jar his head back a bit.

Stiles’ whole body melts, open and slack.

“There’s a good boy, keeping my cock warm in your wet cunt. You’re just a little cocksleeve, aren’t you?”

Stiles sobs, body so buzzed he can’t even twitch his hips. His dick rubs against the sheets underneath him, and he wants so badly to hump into the mattress to relieve the itchy heat crawling through him, but he can’t _move_. He whines, and Peter yanks on the collar a little harder.

He’s moaning and doesn’t hear the beep this time.

The shock surprises him, and when he jerks, Peter presses his whole weight down on him, arm to the back of his neck and hips to ass. He fucks him through it, presses his fingers into Stiles’ mouth and down on his tongue so he doesn’t bite it.

“—clench so tight when you’re being stimulated, baby, so responsive,” Peter is whispering when Stiles comes back to himself. “You’re milking me, working so hard for my come in your ass.”

He can hardly breathe with Peter crushing him like this. His arms are pinned between their bodies behind his back now, and he doesn’t remember how they got there. He drools around Peter’s fingers, sucks on them without thinking about it. Peter stabs at the back of his throat, runs his fingertips over the insides of his cheeks, violates the cavern of his mouth until all he can taste is skin and lube.

“You’re taking Daddy so well, sweetheart. I can feel your insides changing just for me, rearranging for my cock.”

Stiles clenches his eyes shut and moans. There’s a wet spot growing underneath him, sweat and precome making him sticky. He comes hairtrigger-like, can’t help it with the way Peter’s grinding into him. Peter tuts in his ear, a hand worming its way under his hips to fondle where Stiles has gone warm and wet.

He isn’t gentle, and the touch stings with sensitivity, but Stiles squirms for more, like he can’t help it.

“Getting yourself off without permission, what a selfish boy,” Peter scolds, pinching the softening tip of his dick.

Stiles yowls, but can only take it.

Peter never slows his pace, frothing his insides with his relentless fucking, and all the while pinches and squeezes Stiles’ soft cock. Stiles wails, shouts until his mouth is dry. He cries in earnest, and Peter laughs low, right in his ear.

The collar goes off again, and Stiles is so debilitated, he barely twitches. His hole spasms weakly on Peter’s cock.

He feels the urgent pressure in his gut too late. It starts as a dribble and grows.

“Nooo,” he moans, the first word he’s managed in ages. He pisses right on Peter’s hand, and the Dom rubs him through it, smearing his soaked hand up and down his stomach and behind his tender balls.

“It’s all right, baby,” Peter coos, and his dick rams up into his plush insides harder, making him pee in strange bursts. He brings his soiled hand up to Stiles’ face and rubs his thumb on his bottom lip.

“Clean it up now,” he says sweet as sugar, and Stiles can smell it. He shakes with sobs, but accepts Peter’s thumb, sucks on it until the pungent taste is gone.

He’s drunk, he must be. It feels so good, even though his ass starts feeling a little dry now and his whole groin aches.

“You’re such a sweet boy, Stiles. Maybe I’ll keep you,” he says, finally lifting away a fraction. He spreads Stiles’ legs wider, adjusts so he can thrust harder. “Your daddy was real foolish to let you out of his sight.”

Peter presses something hard into one of Stiles’ hands and positions his fingers so it grips the sharp corners firmly.

“You’re so good, Stiles. You’re so good, you’re going to press that button when I tell you to, and then you’re going to take my knot.”

Knot..?

“Are you going to press the button, Stiles?”

It’s the remote to the collar, he realizes distantly, his thumb pressed right over the soft button.

“ _Answer me_ , Stiles.”

It’s like a compulsion.

“Yes, Daddy,” he croaks, and Peter’s weight is on him again, his hand is back on his cock, where he’s spent and raw. It hurts so bad, and he never wants it to end.

“Now.”

Stiles presses the button.

It sears through him, seizes his muscles and ties him up better than the canary cage. He’s frozen, his fingers locked on the remote, and it’s impossible to release. Peter groans against his back, his hips finally stopping, pressed all the way against Stiles’ flexing ass. His cock feels so big, like it’s—like it’s growing, like the shocks are making his ass tighter and tighter. It rubs into his prostate, puts an impossible pressure on the oversensitive gland.

Peter pries his hand away from the remote. The shocks stop.

Stiles breathes open mouthed in the weird silence that follows, floating, unable to form a single thought.

“Can you come one more time for me, baby?” Peter asks. He sounds wrecked, voice a deep growl, his whole body tightly wound on Stiles’.

Stiles whines, no, impossible, but Peter is determined. He circles his hips, and Stiles feels something frighteningly big tug at his hole from the inside, then grind down on his prostate. He gasps.

“That’s it, squeeze on my knot, keep going.”

Peter makes a rhythm, pressing his dick back and forward just an inch, enough that Stiles can feel it pulling on his hole and pressing back into his swollen insides. It’s endless, everything so sensitive and sore. Peter’s cock feels _huge_ , and it bruises him up, churns his guts. His orgasm builds and snatches his stomach, swoops down on him. He isn’t even hard, his aching cock giving a weak spurt.

Peter growls, and Stiles feels a burning pulse in his ass as the man finally comes.

Stiles blanks after that, perfectly still and quiet.

There are fleeting moments, Peter breathing hot in his ear, fucking him again, biting into his shoulder, whispering _Daddy’s here, shh_. Being on his back, forced to press on his belly so he can feel where the tip of Peter’s cock pushes into his palm from under his skin. He thinks he pisses again, a warm rush coating his belly, almost as good as coming.

Eventually he becomes slowly aware that it’s dark, that he’s folded over in the recovery bow at the foot of the bed, his forehead pressed to his knees. He can see Peter’s bare feet, his crossed ankles. He lifts his head, groggy. Peter is sitting up against the headboard reading.

He looks up when Stiles moves.

“Welcome back, sweetheart.”

Stiles blinks, dazed.

He feels sleepy, warm. _Calm_.

There’s a thick, heavy plug in his ass, bigger than the pacifiers at the daycare. It gives him something to center on. He can’t help rocking in place a little as he feels it out, panting open-mouthed and mindless.  

“Mmm,” he grumbles, slowly sitting up and stretching. His stomach feels weirdly bloated, the skin under his bellybutton tight.

He’s clean, naked as the stripped-down bed. He reaches for his neck, only for Peter to tsk at him.

“Don’t touch. You’ll mess up the bandages.”  

He feels… exposed. Broken down to his simplest components. It’s hard to find the words he wants to say. He expects a crash, an emptiness that always accompanies this part of coming down, but instead he just feels… good.

“Daddy,” he whines, unsure.

Peter smiles, pats his lap in invitation. He’s wearing a hotel provided bathrobe, and it’s short enough to reveal his muscular, hairy thighs. Stiles salivates as he crawls up the bed obediently. Peter opens the robe enough that his soft, clean uncut cock is revealed.

“Why don’t you be my little cock warmer for a bit?”

Stiles settles comfortably between Peter’s legs, head resting on his thigh, and nurses on the tip of his cock. He slowly swallows down the length of him, until his breath is nearly cut off. Peter hums in approval and folds the robe back over, enclosing Stiles in the damp, musky smell. He dozes for a while like that, and only wakes up to Peter rolling his hips, thrusting his hardened cock against the back of his throat and coming.

He’s reluctant to move, still sucking absently, when Peter pulls him up onto his lap. He curls up on Peter, and the man pets his damp hair, gives him soft, meaningless commands until he feels less like liquid. _Count to ten aloud; good boy. Spell your name backwards. Recite a poem._

Food arrives some time later, and Peter feeds him small bites of tasty things until he’s begging for no more, stomach twinging uncomfortably.

When Peter decides it’s finally time to leave, he dresses himself then helps Stiles because he can’t lift his arms or coordinate his legs. Peter swaddles him in a thick, fuzzy robe and rubs a sweet smelling cream all over his skin. He grabs each of his feet and slips them back into Jackson’s slipper. He lifts Stiles, and Stiles plasters himself over the man, only capable of hanging limp and heavy. He carries him out of the hotel, Stiles’ mouth pressed to his neck. The concierge and other guests make soft cooing noises at his total gooey state, and he can’t even be mad.

“He’s such a sweetie,” a woman comments as Peter turns in the room key.

“Isn’t that nice? Say thank you for the compliment, baby.”

Stiles wants to fight it. He usually hates this kind of thing, but right now it’s making him squirm. He hides his face under Peter’s chin and mumbles a hoarse _thank you_.

Peter rewards him by activating the vibe in the plug, and he can’t hide his moan or the way his hips twitch into Peter’s side. Peter and the woman exchange an infuriating Indulgent Dom look before the valet brings around the car.

Peter settles him in the passenger seat and fastens the safety belt over his middle. The strap presses into his stomach and creates an achy pressure there.

Stiles sleeps most of the ride, drooling on his arm and only waking when the incessant buzzing of the vibe in his ass crests in toe curling completion. It takes him a while to realize it’s past midnight, even longer to recognize the familiar sights of Beacon Hills in the dark.

They roll up to the abandoned daycare, its parking lot deserted at this time of night. Only Stiles’ jeep remains.

“All right. Time to relinquish the plug.”

Stiles blinks, wiggling in his seat. He stares at Peter’s hand, held out expectantly. It takes him a moment to focus, then looks at Peter with the biggest, most pleading eyes he can manage.

“Can’t I keep it? Something to remember you by?”

“No. Put those fake, pouty eyes away.”

Stiles grumbles, but brings a leg up to reach his ass. He bites his lip to muffle his noises as he twists the base of the plug and pulls it free. He’s terribly loose, his hole gaping open. He can’t resist feeling it out with his fingers, playing with the red rim in morbid fascination. Peter clears his throat. Stiles holds the plug up with a grimace.

“Wait,” Stiles says, not ready to get out of the car yet. “What am I supposed to say when they find me?”

He doesn’t even have his keys or phone. He can barely think straight enough to worry about it.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re a clever boy.”

Stiles huffs. He thinks that emotional crash is looming on the horizon. He looks up at Peter from under his lashes, really working that subby, demure look. This whole experience has made him shameless.

“Will I see you again?”

Peter grins wickedly then.

“I guess you’ll have to stand naked on the side of the road, and hope I’m driving by.”

Stiles scowls, the last of that warm, fuzzy feeling evaporating without a trace. His stomach starts cramping with his bad mood.

“Whatever, dude,” he snaps, throwing the car door open and stepping out in the dark lot. He slams the door behind him without looking back.

He takes a step toward his jeep, but Peter calls after him. He turns slowly, making Peter wait for it, half a dozen sarcastic rejoinders at the ready.

The passenger window is rolled down.

“You forgot this, sweetheart.”

Peter tosses him a wad of fabric and a piece of card stock. He drives off, makes an illegal u-turn at a deserted intersection and disappears into the night. Stiles looks at the stuff in his hands.

Jackson fucking Whittemore’s robe and a business card.

It has Peter’s name on it, right above _Beacon Hills Submissive Wellness Center, Executive Business Coordinator_.

Stiles runs his fingers over the card, a smile tugging at his mouth. There’s a floaty feeling creeping into his head the longer he stands there looking at it.

Until a gallon of lube and come gushes from his ass and splats loudly on the pavement.

It’s an uncomfortably apt metaphor.


End file.
